Flowers on Traken
by tromana
Summary: Nyssa doesn’t like to remember, the scars can be too much to bear.


**Title: **Flowers on Traken  
**Author: **tromana  
**Rating: **PG  
**Characters:** Fifth Doctor, Nyssa  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary: **Nyssa doesn't like to remember, the scars can be too much to bear.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doctor Who. Never have, never will.

**Flowers on Traken**

The springtime flowers on Traken are incomparable to the rest of the Universe. When the wind picks up, blossom petals of pinks, yellows, purples, whites, blues, dance in the sky before gracefully taking their final bow on the lush green grass below. The ground becomes a flurry of pastel colours, the scent divine. Such peace, beauty, tranquillity. All died in a millisecond. Entropy, a state of decay. All before it's time.

Nyssa is the last surviving member of the Empire of Traken. The only daughter of a council member, she was whisked away before the death of her people, her planet, her home. Taken to the relative safety of the Doctor's care. She travels with him, never stopping in one place for too long. Frequently, she escapes danger by the skin of her teeth. She likes it this way; there are fewer chances to contemplate, to think of home.

When it is quiet, when Tegan and Adric are slumbering deeply and the Doctor is lost to the depths of the TARDIS, tinkering, she thinks. Nyssa doesn't like to remember, the scars can be too much to bear.

The imposing Melkur, frozen in time, to stop evil seeping into a good place. Tending to him with fragile spring flowers, a duty she had inherited from her mother. A good woman, kind, knowledgeable. Her father was too. She remembers running hand in hand with him, allowing the spring detritus that one last lease of life. Him crouching down to her level and begging her to remember her innocence, her youth, before rushing off to yet another arduous council meeting.

Her father. His soul was extinguished, his features tarnished. His body survives, somewhere. Inhabited by a being so evil, it horrifies Nyssa. Thoughts of her father always lead to thoughts of the Master, chilling her to the bone. She felt cold, terribly so, after all, it was essentially the Master's fault she was now homeless excepting the TARDIS. The scrapes she experiences with the Doctor always remind of her of the one place he never managed to save. Traken.

A tear slides down Nyssa's cheek and a hand gently came into contact with her shoulder. Soothing, reassuringly.

The Doctor smiles benignly at her as she turns to face him. He opens the door and wordlessly invites her out for a walk. It doesn't need to be said that the others will be safe, dreaming in the TARDIS.

They emerge hand in hand onto an ancient woodland. Earth, England. The Doctor's favourite planet and country. Nyssa tries to hide the small smile erupting across her face, failing dismally. The trees were gnarled appearing older than Time itself. They twist their way to the spring sunrise, the gaps of sky painted with reds, purples, oranges.

The Doctor wraps an arm around her shoulders and she does not shrug it off, as she normally would do. He was so youthful, nervous yet still so terribly ancient as his old form was. It was slowly becoming harder to remember his old face, the unruly curled hair, the sharp blue eyes, the ridiculous scarf. She still felt safe with him regardless of his form. There was still so much she needed to learn.

Change. Something old always gives way to something new, fresh. Nyssa had frequently wondered whether anything yet had replaced the static society of Traken in the fabric of the Universe. Maybe one day she would find the confidence to ask him. Today, however, she did not. She could not, the wounds were still too fresh.

The wind picks up and the bluebells dance in the breeze. It is enough to loosen new petals from the plant and slowly allow them to make their descent to the ground.

Flowers on Earth are nothing like that of Traken. Ugly, vulgar in comparison. Still, Nyssa of Traken beams as the Doctor lets go of her. She runs, twisting through the ancient oak trees as blossom dances in the air.

end


End file.
